The Ghost of a Junkyard Dog
by vanillafluffy
Summary: Bobby is minding his own business, fixing up an old Chevelle, when strange things start happening at Singer Salvage. He thinks it may be a fourlegged ghost. Set early in season 2, spoilers for Devil's Trap and IMToD.


**The Ghost of a Junkyard Dog**

"The Devil makes work for idle hands", is what Bobby Singer says when Herbie Lowell asks him why in the world he's bothering to fix up the old Chevelle.

Dean finished restoring the Impala and the Winchesters took to the road a few days ago. Bobby's felt the solitude more than he used to, which prompted him to pull the engine out of the Chevelle and start rebuilding it. It means a trip into the machine shop in town, where he does some horse-trading with Herbie, shop work in exchange for salvage.

The trip to town gives him a chance to pick up supplies. The Price Club warehouse is almost empty this Thursday morning, and he snags cases of corned beef hash, drums of coffee, bales of bathroom tissue. He finds himself in the pet food aisle before he remembers that he has one less mouth to feed. With weeks of Dean working in the yard and Sam rooting through Bobby's library like a pig after truffles, he hasn't had time to miss Rumsfeld. Grimly, he wheels the cart to the register. If he doesn't have any more house-guests, this'll last him for a month or so.

Bobby first saw the Chevelle at the side of the road the day after the Winchesters departed. The fool kid who ran it into the ground had the nerve to demand five hundred dollars for parts. Bobby's standard price when buying a car for parts is fifty dollars, period, but something about this kid reminded him of Sam Winchester. (It must've been his pout, because this whelp is half-a-foot shorter than Sam, with no big brother in sight.) He went up to a hundred, and the youth took it.

After hooking up the chains, Bobby drove the kid home---not entirely out of the goodness of his heart: he wanted the title in his hand so there'd be no "misunderstanding" later. The vehicle inside the shed now, hood propped up with a chunk of 4x4, its engine being ministered to by Herbie while Bobby tends the rest of it. The stillness that hangs over the yard is punctuated only by a tarp flapping over a stack of bench seats. Usually Rumsfeld would be over in that corner by the workbench, tags on his collar jingling when he went after a stray itch.

He's hardly had a chance to miss the old dog. The incident with the possessed girl had been followed swiftly by the crash and John's death, and he's had the boys in his pocket ever since.

It's good to get some work done for a change without being interrupted. If it wasn't Dean asking him where the Motor Manual was, it was Sam asking if he should add peppers to the chili he was making. Somehow, the manual had gotten a toolbox stacked on top of it, and hunting it up had stolen twenty minutes out of his afternoon, and what fool makes chili without peppers, anyway? Yup, definitely the pout and the "poor-me" eyes, same as that kid with the Chevelle.

Not that he doesn't love those boys like family, it's just that Bobby's set in his ways. He's had the place to himself since his Pa passed back in '85; he's used to things staying where he put them. A hundred little misdemeanors set his guilt warring with aggravation. Finding the coffeepot empty but still on, the last square of toilet paper gone, the scissors not on the hook by the refrigerator, waking to hear the TV on in the middle of the night---it all set his teeth on edge like biting tinfoil.

Rumsfeld was all the company he needed. When he thinks he hears snuffling outside by the trash barrel and remembers there's no Rumsfeld any more, Bobby starts and bangs his head against the hanging light fixture over his workbench. Utters a few choice words. Listens carefully, but there's nothing. He's imagining things.

He's pulled a four-barrel carb off of an ancient Buick that's been sitting out back since the Bush administration...Bush Senior, that is. Rebuilding it is fiddly work, the kind of thing he's spent so much of his life doing that his hands go through the motions while his mind wanders.

Was there anything more he could've done to help the Winchesters after the accident? Maybe, if he'd gone and had a few words with John? Telling Sam the real use for the items his daddy had asked him to get...and knowing full well that Sam and John got on like cats and dogs...he should've gone to the hospital himself and talked to the man, made him see sense...except when it came to John Winchester, sense usually got shoved aside in favor of being an obsessed bastard. It wouldn't've done any good, Bobby concludes, but he still feels as if there was more he should've done.

Guilt, survivor's guilt, maybe, since he remembers a similar feeling from his time in-country, Christ, hard to believe that's forty years ago...John's gone, so's Jim Murphy, and Caleb Temple...and Rumsfeld...and here Bobby is, working on a car that's nearly that old, for no reason other than to keep himself busy. He could find work to do around the yard for that; Bobby knows fixing up the Chevelle isn't going to bring back his friends or his lost youth, but somehow, it's what he needs to do.

For a second, he thinks there's a grey shadow in the doorway, but when he looks, it's gone. He's alone…it's what he's used to, except having a dog around isn't like having people around.

Come suppertime, he quells an urge to whistle for his four-legged friend. Maybe it's time to gather up the dog's bowls and toys...but you need a good dog when you run a salvage yard. Probably he ought to go over to the pound and pick out the Rottie's successor. Not a replacement, because Rumsfeld was one of a kind, but a critter that'll chase off coyotes and the two-legged scavengers who'd pick him clean if he didn't watch out.

There's a panful of corned beef hash on the stove, when a clattering outside puts him in mind of a whole pyramid of cans crashing down in a supermarket. Bobby shifts the pan from the heat so it doesn't burn and hustles outside to investigate. It turns out that a stack of bench seats has collapsed, landing atop a rusted out Escort. It sounded a lot worse than it was---

Something a couple rows over makes a noise, and Bobby cusses himself for leaving his shotgun at the house. He draws his Bowie knife from its boot sheath and goes to investigate. This could be a scene from the Western serials of his youth, he thinks wryly. He's the good guy in the canyon where the rustlers are waiting in ambush, the possibility of a rock-fall looms, and twilight is fast yielding to darkness.

Bah, it's that overactive imagination again. It's more than likely a stray coyote looking for a den. Another good reason to get another dog. It could be a wolf, but he doubts it. Still, he'd rather have the shotgun right now than eight inches of steel. Because there's no cavalry to ride to the rescue---he's on his own. And what's that…?

A chill runs down Bobby's backbone when he gets close enough to see the object lying in the dusty trail: it's Rumsfeld's cushion, and he knows for a fact that was by the shed door earlier this afternoon. No coyote would've gone near it.

"Rumsfeld." He says it loudly enough to be heard at least the next aisle over, and he'd swear he hears paws padding nearby. His belly knots. He stands there for a couple minutes, attentive to every sigh of breeze and cricket's fart. By now, he halfway expects to have a cold, wet nose nuzzle the hand that isn't gripping the Bowie. 

At last, Bobby trudges back to the house, where he makes two discoveries. The first is paw prints in his salt line. Not too well-defined, but distinctly paw-prints. And his dinner is missing. The frying pan rests on the kitchen floor and the corned beef hash is gone, gone, gone.

Well, now...ain't that a kick in the head? Bobby grabs another can and works the can opener, considering. It managed to get the screen door open and crossed a salt line to come into the house, in addition to knocking a heavy skillet off the stove. It carried off Rumsfeld's cushion when it was in the shop earlier. If it's supernatural, it shouldn't be able to cross a salt line. It left paw-prints, but no wild critter is going to be so bold around humanity.

Salt and burn Rumsfeld? He hadn't, just dug a good, deep hole and buried him like a bone. Since this was his place in life, which could account for him being able to cross the salt line. It wouldn't be the first time the dog stole from the stove; Rumsfeld loved corned beef. That was his fault, Bobby acknowledged, since there were times he'd open a second can for the Rottie when he'd run out of dog food and wasn't in the mood to go into town.

Mournful howling begins a little after midnight. Bobby, forgetful with sleep, blinks, grumbles, "Rumsfeld, you damn fool!" as he stumbles out of bed---because this isn't a danger bark, or a mortal peril yelping, it's a whiny-ass boo-hooing. He wrenches up the window sash, starts to shout and halts at the sight of the dog in the moonlight.

The details are fuzzy at this distance; Bobby's glasses are still folded on his bedside table---but it's definitely a big, muscular dog, the color of pewter in the radiance of the moon. It's stopped baying, and stands looking toward the house, and Bobby feels a chill that's not entirely caused by the night air creeping into his long johns. He's not sure what it is that's out there, but whatever it is can cross a salt line.

Come daylight, Bobby fuels up with strong coffee---he slept with the shotgun within arm's reach and kept waking up thinking he heard the pad of the ghost-dog's paws in the hallway. There was nothing to indicate it had gotten into the house, and when he goes out to investigate the area where it was standing the night before, he finds paw prints in the dusty ground---bigger than Rumsfeld's. Taking a closer look at the seats that collapsed the day before, he finds evidence that something was trying to den there, but he doesn't think it was coyotes any more.

Later that morning, Herbie comes by with the remanufactured engine for the Chevelle, which is a welcome distraction from his uneasy thoughts. The machinist admires his efforts. "You're gonna have a real sleeper on your hands, Bobby. It sure looks like a beater, but it's gonna kick some ass."

There are a few desirable items that Herbie wants, enough that he sticks around helps change out the Chevelle's shocks, and goes home with a truckload of stuff in return. As he drives out of the yard, movement catches Bobby's eye---a gray shadow bolts from the back porch and around the corner of the house.

By this time, it's well after noon, and Bobby's ready for some lunch. He eats and plans, and when he's finished his meal, he makes preparations to get better acquainted with his mysterious visitor. He fetches the tarp with the Devil's Trap painted on it, and spreads it out, weighting down the corners with some out-of-round wheel rims.

In the middle of the pentagram, he places Rumsfeld's water bowl and fills it from a gallon jug of holy water. There. Let's see what that critter is made of. He may be overly cautious---it could be an ordinary stray dog, but on the off-chance that the salt line was broken and something wicked got through, he's ready for trouble. The shotgun is loaded with salt, but he's got silver rounds in his shirt pocket for back-up.

Bobby settles onto the old cane-back chair on the porch and waits. He tips his chair back and wonders idly if the Chevelle could take the Impala. Maybe so. She has a bigger engine. If he puts in posi-traction---

There's movement out in the yard. He gets his first good look at the beast slinking toward the water dish. It crosses the tarp, entering the trap. Now that it's closer, Bobby can see how little it looks like Rumsfeld.

There are no tan markings on its short-haired coat, which is a solid, dusty gray. Its ribs look like a washboard; Bobby suspects the hash is the most solid food it's had at one time in quite a while. A Rottweiler has a flat, squared off muzzle, with a respectable set of jowls. This old boy looks more like a bloodhound, with an elongated muzzle and droopy flaps of skin like the wattles on a rooster. Almost like one of those Chinese dogs he's seen pictures of, but this critter has a long tail and floppy hound ears, nearly as long as a blood- or basset hound.

He watches as the dog pauses at the edge of the tarp, patting the blue plastic with its paw like a cautious swimmer testing the water with one toe. After a moment, it ambles into the trap and heads straight for the water bowl. The hound laps at the holy water, exhibiting no sign of distress. After drinking its fill, the dog flops down onto the tarp and rolls onto its back, pawing the air. Now Bobby can say for sure that the dog is a male.

The question is, is he a, having a fit from the holy water, b, trying to dislodge the tarp, or c, scratching his back?

When Bobby starts cranking the manual can opener, the dog rolls to his belly and looks alertly toward the porch. The contents slide out of the can in a mottled pink and white cylinder and into Rumsfeld's bowl. Bobby uses the sharp round circle of the lid to hack the stuff into chunks. He leans over and sets the bowl at the top of the porch steps.

The hound has caught scent of the hash. Bobby would swear it looks right at him. "If you're expecting me to cook it for you, think again," he says to it.

The dog stands up, shakes himself, jowls flapping---there's a dust cloud, like that kid in the Charlie Brown cartoons---and minces from the circle. Nothing spooky happens; it crosses the boundaries of the trap with as little fanfare as it entered. It's not a haunt or a Black Dog, only a skinny dog, approaching the food with nostrils flaring. He gets as close as the bottom step and sits, watching Bobby and licking his chops.

Remembering the pathetic howls last night, Bobby shakes his head. This critter is as lily-livered as they come. "I reckon Rumsfeld would've had you for lunch, boy" the old hunter says, keeping his voice low and his tone warm. "Sorry bag of bones like you probably can't catch your own tail, much less dinner." He keeps talking, staying motionless, and little by little, the hound cringes his way up the steps.

The stray is trying to watch him and chow down the hash at the same time. Its eyes are queerly yellow, like a wolf's eyes, but there's nothing wolf-like about it except its shyness. When Bobby experimentally shifts one booted foot, his visitor skitters away, almost falling down the three steps in its haste to retreat.

He shakes his head at the dog's abject cowardice. To think this pitiful thing caused him a restless night! Chalk up another one for his imagination; this is just a poor flesh-and-blood animal who's scared of his own shadow.

Bobby eases out of the chair. The skinny hound stands his ground, quaking so much his jowls wobble as Bobby picks up the half-eaten bowl of hash. He sits down on the top step, rests his boots on the bottom step, and sets the bowl back down between his feet. "Let's see how hungry you really are."

The yellow-eyed hound whines unhappily. Too bad. Bobby waits, continuing his ruminations on the Chevelle. This evening, when it gets a little cooler, he'll start getting the engine buttoned up. He's got new seals and gaskets, managed to salvage and rehab a flywheel that won't eat up the replacement starter---one of the previous drivers must've been a world-class klutz to tear it up so badly---but he'll have it running in another day or two.

One hesitant step at a time, the grey dog approaches the bowl again. He looks up at Bobby with pleading eyes. "I'm just sitting here minding my own business," Bobby tells him matter-of-factly. "Don't let me stop you."

At last, the grey muzzle sinks into the bowl again, and after a couple gobbled mouthfuls, Bobby rests a hand just behind one of the flopping ears. Instantly, the dog turns to stone. Bobby scratches lightly at first, then a little more vigorously. He leans forward and applies his other hand behind the other ear. Gradually, he rubs his way along the dog's back from shoulder to flanks, and the critter dances in place.

When Bobby stops, the dog whines again, but this time, it prods his arm with its nose. It snuffles at his sleeve, his hand, his jeans, boots, curious now. It rolls onto its back, paws waving in the air again, and Bobby scratches the dog's chest and belly. The poor beast is half-starved. Looking at its paws in relation to the rest of it, he has a feeling it's only about half grown. If that's the case, he'll be a damned big dog.

Bobby stands up and the dog scrambles to his feet as well, but instead of fleeing, he bounces a few yards away, then bounces back. He really is just a big puppy. Whether or not he'll ever make a guard dog remains to be seen.

It's late enough in the afternoon that the shed isn't too hot to work in, so Bobby starts putting the freshly machined heads back together. The dog watches him from the doorway for a little while. As he's carefully compressing valve springs, it enters slowly and sniffs his way over to the corner where Rumsfeld's cushion used to be. 

When the hound settles down in the same spot, Bobby doesn't make a production out of it, but he says, "Good boy!" and continues with what he's doing.

The hound stays out of his way, but isn't avoiding him. Probably he's hoping the handouts and belly-rubs will continue. Bobby's willing to give the beast a 30-day free trial, see if he can earn his keep. Meanwhile, he's got to figure out what to call the dog. Hmm, sneaky, paranoid and cowardly, with a face full of wrinkles and jowls….

The question occupies him as he finishes assembling the heads and valve covers and gets them remounted on the block with fresh gaskets. He wouldn't waste his money on fancy chrome-plated everything, because that crap's for amateurs, but that's what was on there from the previous owner. Considering what that kind of hardware goes for new, Bobby got his money's worth for the extra fifty he paid.

Dumb kid, probably doesn't know shit for cars…which is like Sam, he has to admit. How many times has Sam called from some gas station, and said, "Oh, Dean's fussing with the car", like adding a quart of oil was something extravagant? It's a lot more important than shiny aftermarket parts: they don't run on looks.

He finally calls quitting time and saunters back to the house, the hound falling in beside him as far as the porch, then it sits down beside the food bowl and fixes Bobby with a hopeful expression. He moans a little, like he might be tuning up for something a lot more long-winded. It sounds like a politician getting ready to stump, and Bobby grins. He's found a name, alright….

"Lucky for you I've still got a few cans of dog food kicking around," he tells his new companion. "No way am I gonna keep feeding you good hash." He goes inside to locate one of the remaining cans and serves it up. Granted it's only been a couple hours since it devoured that can of hash, but it'll help cement the hound's friendship. "Old Rumsfeld had seniority, but you, Nixon, are gonna have to earn it." He puts the tarp away, sees to it that there's fresh water in the other bowl, then heads inside for his own dinner.

It's the middle of the night, and Bobby is sleeping the sleep of the just when the ruckus breaks out. It's coming from the direction of the yard, and there's snarling and yelping and a pitiful screaming---coyotes after a rabbit, he reckons---and just when he's starting to think about grabbing the shotgun and firing off a warning shot, a deep-chested baying starts beneath his window, then goes howling off in the direction of the coyotes.

Bobby squints out the window. He can hear more yipping and snarling in the distance, the voices of the coyotes higher in pitch than the dog. He wonders if Nixon's up to the task, or if the hound is going to need patching up afterward.

Is that Nixon coming toward the house? Something about the dog's silhouette is wrong, and the old hunter hurries downstairs. As he turns on the kitchen light, he hears scratching and snuffling at the back door.

The salt line is in place, so he opens the door and Nixon rushes in, carrying something in his mouth. Bobby is dumbfounded when the dog drops a very dead rabbit at his feet and sits, wagging his tail.

The hound doesn't seem to be hurt; he's just happy with himself, panting, tail going like a metronome, just waiting for thanks and congratulations for his trophy. The coyotes must've been in a hurry to depart, if they left a prize like this behind. Bobby has to pull out one of the kitchen chairs and sit down, he's laughing so hard.

"Good boy, Nixon!"

Nixon rests slobbering jowls on Bobby's thermal-clad leg, and Bobby scratches behind his ears. The hound gives a little moan of pleasure; he's a lot more vocal than Rumsfeld, but maybe once he gets a little older, he'll show more restraint. When Bobby's fingers find the ticklish patch on his chest, the dog collapses blissfully on the floor. Well, it's after four in the morning. Bobby knows he's not going to be getting back to sleep tonight, so he skins and guts the rabbit and rewards Nixon for a job well done.

The early start means it's not quite sun-up when Bobby heads back out to the shed, the hound padding at his side, a faithful shadow.

Nixon crawls under the Chevelle next to him while Bobby bolts the engine and transmission together. "Look, rabbit-breath," he says to the hound, "you're lying on my seven-eighths socket. Go on! Over there!" The dog squirms out from under the car, but he doesn't go back to the corner, either. He waits nearby, and whines occasionally.

When Bobby slides out from under the car, Nixon is right there to lick his face. Talk about going from one extreme to another. Be nice to him, and he'll love you to death. If that's any indication, he's gonna make a terrible watch dog.

The bell rings, signaling that there's a car coming up the road. Bobby's just getting the air filter in place, and he takes an extra minute to make sure the butterfly value isn't sticking.

A car door slams outside, and Nixon streaks out of the shed, barking.

Oh God, don't let the dog bite a customer, Bobby prays, dropping the screwdriver onto the workbench in passing and bolting for the yard.

There's a shiny new mint green Nissan sedan out there---newer than anything Bobby has in stock---and Nixon woofs loudly at a thirty-something yuppie in a suit. "Call your dog off, Mister!" Suit Yuppie yells.

"Nixon!" The dog glances over his shoulder at Bobby and sits. He turns back to the interloper, watching him with those yellow eyes, and Bobby tries not to smirk. Looks like Nixon might just turn out to be a decent watch dog at that.

"You looking for parts?" he asks the yuppie, who looks pained.

"My name is Anthony Thurber. I represent Acme Business Services, and I'd like to offer you---"

"You're trying to sell me something?"

"For a limited time only---" 

"Whatever it is, I don't need it. I don't need business cards, or a new sign, I'm already in the yellow pages, so save your breath…and maybe your suit. Run along now."

"But, sir---! " He takes a step forward and Nixon growls. From the way his hackles are standing up, Bobby has only to say the word and Thurber's gonna wish he'd never gotten out of bed this morning. Nah. Much as he detests salesmen, insurance adjusters are even worse.

"For that, you get hash tonight," Bobby tells Nixon as the salesman drives rapidly away. 

He's down under attaching the starter, when the bell rings again. Nixon streaks out of the shed, but Bobby doesn't hear any snarling, barking or screaming, so he takes his time getting out from under the old Chevy.

The truck belongs to one of his regulars, and the hound is standing on his back legs, front paws against the door of the truck, licking Kathy's face. She's laughing and scratching behind his floppy ears, and Bobby relaxes. It looks like the dog has more sense than he gave him credit for---although the fact the Kathy's truck has been converted to bio-diesel and its exhaust fumes smell like fried chicken probably helps.

"Nixon, leave the lady alone!" Bobby says. Nixon looks in his direction, but he doesn't want to leave his newfound friend.

"Down!" says Kathy, pushing back at the dog's chest. His paws slip from the truck, and he sits looking worshipfully up at her. "New dog, Bobby? Rumsfeld is gone?"

"Yeah, Rumsfeld's gone. This fella just wandered in. Sorry he bothered you. He's half-grown, half-starved and hasn't learned manners yet."

"He's a sweetheart." She smiles at the hound. "And did I hear you right? His name is Nixon? That's too funny! He looks like a Nixon."

Kathy's a crafter. She repurposes all kinds of things in her art. Downright junk, Bobby thinks at times when she checks out with her loot, but it's better than letting it rust out back. She'll roam around the lot for hours looking for bits that strike her fancy. She's contracted with a mail order catalog company to make belts with recycled seat belt buckles and links made from cut up license plates, and she's mentioned a gallery in Denver a couple times.

"There's a fellow who's been saving old license plates for me---I've got a bunch for you, if you're still collecting them."

"Fantastic! Mind if I wander around the yard and see if anything looks interesting?"

"Any time. I'll be in the shed. If you need help with anything, just holler." Bobby thinks it's a shame he isn't twenty years younger...she's a curvy redhead with a nice shape and an even nicer smile...and he's fairly sure she's single. Nixon has good taste.

As usual, after a while he forgets she's out back---she's quiet, and he's busy with the Chevelle, and he's to the point where he's almost ready to fire up the engine. Then the gray dog wags his way into the shed ahead of her, and Bobby blinks. Not Rumsfeld, Nixon, he reminds himself.

Kathy has harvested a bucketful of seat belt buckles---pre-buckled to avoid later confusion---a shapely rear-view mirror he thinks is from an old Galaxy, and a heap of other odds and ends she'll work her magic on. With the license plates thrown in, it's the biggest sale he's made this week, a whopping $62. It hardly begins to make up for what he's put into the Chevelle, but if---when he sells it, he'll clear that easily. 

When Kathy gets ready to climb back into the truck, Nixon gets in front of her and tries to herd her back into the yard.

Lucky for them, she's a good sport. She finally gets her hand on the latch and swings the cab door open. "Nixon, it's been a pleasure meeting you," she says, leaning down from the seat to give the hound a good-bye pat, "but I have to get home to fix dinner. See you, Bobby!"

Maybe her lack of a wedding ring doesn't mean anything. He wonders who she's fixing dinner for, and weighs the merits of going in and opening a couple of cans. Nixon probably won't object, and now that he's paused long enough to think about it, it's been a damn long day…but the Chevelle is close to being done, and after a short break, Bobby resumes tinkering.

When he's certain that everything is as good as it's gonna get, he taps the gas pedal twice and turns the key. Too bad Dean isn't here to savor the moment when the big-block 454 growls to life. Bobby spends another hour happily fussing and fine-tuning the engine 'til it purrs. He's pleased to note that there's three-quarters of a tank of gas, another sign he's gotten his money's worth.

There are no alarms in the night, or maybe he's just tired enough to sleep through them, and when he opens the kitchen door in the morning, Nixon gambols in, tail wagging in greeting. It's quite a change from old Rumsfeld, who'd always been a surly cuss.

Rumsfeld considered begging beneath him, but Nixon looks expectant as Bobby spreads peanut butter on a toasted waffle. (Something the boys got him started on. Not bad.)

The hound looks a little less scrawny, but breakfast won't hurt him any. "You've got it good, buster." Nixon wags agreement.

Out in the shed, the Chevelle is ready and waiting. There are no ominous puddles underneath, nothing's leaked, tire pressure is good all the way around. Enough stalling, he tells himself.

The good thing about being your own boss is that you can make your own hours. Bobby needs dog food---now that he's got a dog again---and he can take care of two birds with the same hunk of rock and test-drive the Chevelle at the same time.

"Come on," he says to his dog, holding the door open. "Let's go for a ride."


End file.
